Curdie was not in a very good way, then, at that time.His father and mother had, it is true, no fault to find with him and yet - and yet - neither of them was ready to sing when the thought of him came up.There must be something wrong when a mother catches herself sighing over the time when her boy was in petticoats, or a father looks sad when he thinks how he used to carry him on his shoulder.The boy should enclose and keep, as his life, the old child at the heart of him, and never let it go.He must still, to be a right man, be his mother's darling, and more, his father's pride, and more.The child is not meant to die, but to be forever fresh born.
Curdie had made himself a bow and some arrows, and was teaching himself to shoot with them.One evening in the early summer, as he was walking home from the mine with them in his hand, a light flashed across his eyes.He looked, and there was a snow-white pigeon settling on a rock in front of him, in the red light of the level sun.There it fell at once to work with one of its wings, in which a feather or two had got some sprays twisted, causing a certain roughness unpleasant to the fastidious creature of the air.
It was indeed a lovely being, and Curdie thought how happy it must be flitting through the air with a flash - a live bolt of light.
For a moment he became so one with the bird that he seemed to feel both its bill and its feathers, as the one adjusted the other to fly again, and his heart swelled with the pleasure of its involuntary sympathy.Another moment and it would have been aloft in the waves of rosy light - it was just bending its little legs to spring: that moment it fell on the path broken-winged and bleeding from Curdie's cruel arrow.
With a gush of pride at his skill, and pleasure at his success, he ran to pick up his prey.I must say for him he picked it up gently - perhaps it was the beginning of his repentance.But when he had the white thing in his hands its whiteness stained with another red than that of the sunset flood in which it had been revelling - ah God! who knows the joy of a bird, the ecstasy of a creature that has neither storehouse nor barn! - when he held it, I say, in his victorious hands, the winged thing looked up in his face - and with such eyes! - asking what was the matter, and where the red sun had gone, and the clouds, and the wind of its flight.Then they closed, but to open again presently, with the same questions in them.
And as they closed and opened, their look was fixed on his.It did not once flutter or try to get away; it only throbbed and bled and looked at him.Curdie's heart began to grow very large in his bosom.What could it mean? It was nothing but a pigeon, and why should he not kill a pigeon? But the fact was that not till this very moment had he ever known what a pigeon was.A good many discoveries of a similar kind have to be made by most of us.Once more it opened its eyes - then closed them again, and its throbbing ceased.Curdie gave a sob: its last look reminded him of the princess - he did not know why.He remembered how hard he had laboured to set her beyond danger, and yet what dangers she had had to encounter for his sake: they had been saviours to each other -and what had he done now? He had stopped saving, and had begun killing! What had he been sent into the world for? Surely not to be a death to its joy and loveliness.He had done the thing that was contrary to gladness; he was a destroyer! He was not the Curdie he had been meant to be!
Then the underground waters gushed from the boy's heart.And with the tears came the remembrance that a white pigeon, just before the princess went away with her father, came from somewhere - yes, from the grandmother's lamp, and flew round the king and Irene and himself, and then flew away: this might be that very pigeon!
Horrible to think! And if it wasn't, yet it was a white pigeon, the same as this.And if she kept a great Many pigeons - and white ones, as Irene had told him, then whose pigeon could he have killed but the grand old princess's?
Suddenly everything round about him seemed against him.The red sunset stung him; the rocks frowned at him; the sweet wind that had been laving his face as he walked up the hill dropped - as if he wasn't fit to be kissed any more.Was the whole world going to cast him out? Would he have to stand there forever, not knowing what to do, with the dead pigeon in his hand? Things looked bad indeed.Was the whole world going to make a work about a pigeon -a white pigeon? The sun went down.Great clouds gathered over the west, and shortened the twilight.The wind gave a howl, and then lay down again.The clouds gathered thicker.Then came a rumbling.He thought it was thunder.It was a rock that fell inside the mountain.A goat ran past him down the hill, followed by a dog sent to fetch him home.He thought they were goblin creatures, and trembled.He used to despise them.And still he held the dead pigeon tenderly in his hand.
It grew darker and darker.An evil something began to move in his heart.'What a fool I am!' he said to himself.Then he grew angry, and was just going to throw the bird from him and whistle, when a brightness shone all round him.He lifted his eyes, and saw a great globe of light - like silver at the hottest heat: he had once seen silver run from the furnace.It shone from somewhere above the roofs of the castle: it must be the great old princess's moon! How could she be there? Of course she was not there! He had asked the whole household, and nobody knew anything about her or her globe either.it couldn't be! And yet what did that signify, when there was the white globe shining, and here was the dead white bird in his hand? That moment the pigeon gave a little flutter.'It's not dead!' cried Curdie, almost with a shriek.The same instant he was running full speed toward the castle, never letting his heels down, lest he should shake the poor, wounded bird.
